


On the Way Down

by wallmakerrelict



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Pie, Post Season 4, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallmakerrelict/pseuds/wallmakerrelict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean lets a lot of things go without saying, and Castiel lets him get away with it. But when it becomes clear that if Cas loses his virginity, then he will also lose his grace, it forces the two of them to have a serious conversation for once. (And then they have sex).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bright Light

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: [cinnamonsiren](http://www.cinnamonsiren.tumblr.com)

Through all the decades that I and my garrison fought and clawed our way through Hell, I was never lost. I was guided by a light. It shined from the depths of the Pit, even through the darkness of that place, even through the haze of battle. It was beautiful. 

It was Dean Winchester's soul. 

I grasped it there, when it was flayed raw and bleeding light. I healed it. I returned it to its vessel. But that did not dim the brilliance that continued to blaze through the fragile edifice of skin and bone. Whenever I looked upon Dean's face, I was startled by the righteousness burning in his heart.

"He is Michael's sword," said Uriel when I mentioned it to him, "Of course his soul shines somewhat more brightly than the rest of them." Uriel could perceive its brightness, but he was not dazzled by it as I was. He did not understand my fascination. None of them did. When I tried to explain my feelings further, Uriel grew cold toward me, saying, "He may be special, Castiel, but he is only human."

No one understood that it was Dean's humanity that drew me to him. It was his irreverence in the face of Heaven, his defiance in the face of destiny. It was the way he sacrificed for his brother while my own brothers saw me as nothing more than another soldier to be thrown into the machine. It was his soul, shining more beautifully than any angel's grace. For all of these reasons, I turned my back on everything that I had ever known and followed Dean Winchester. 

I followed him all the way to a motel in North Dakota where Dean now sits on the side of the bed, gesturing with his half-full bottle of beer as he attempts to explain to me what is happening on the television. I try to pay attention, but instead I find myself mesmerized by the way the light of Dean's soul intensifies slightly whenever he laughs. 

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?" he says, and takes another gulp of his beer. 

"I apologize," I reply, "I was distracted." 

Dean crinkles his eyes a little, looking happier than I can remember seeing him for a long time. "That's okay," he says, "I have that effect on people."

I want to tell him that he has no idea of the effect that he has on me. He is the sun, and I can no more break away from him than the Earth can spin out into deep space. 

But Dean doesn't like to talk about such things. Even though we have become aware of something between us, neither of us has gone so far as to give it a name. A gaze held too long, the brush of a hand. Even a few kisses stolen during times of great distress. And still, when the crisis is over, neither of us dares to mention it aloud. 

"Tell me about the television program again," I say. Even if I won't follow the explanation, I like to hear him speak. 

"Nah," he says, turning the television off and tossing the remote into a chair across the room, "It's boring, anyway. You're not missing anything." Then, after a moment of silence and another swig of beer, "Do you know where Sam is?"

"Yes," I say, "He called when you were in the shower. He intends to stay at the library for several more hours." 

"Is that so?" Dean's eyes sweep over my body, and at times like these I think that perhaps we don't need to talk about anything. Haven't we long been completely transparent to each other, even without words? Don't I know exactly what he is thinking?

We lean forward at precisely the same time, our lips meeting in the middle. It's different this time. Instead of a quick, desperate crush of bodies after a battle, uninhibited by the thrill of unexpected survival, this is soft and slow. Dean's mouth opens slightly, inviting me to do the same, and there is a promise of something more in the way he slides our tongues together. It is also in his arm snaking around my waist, pulling me close. It is in the bed we sit on, and the fact that Sam won't be back until late tonight. 

"Dean?" I whisper into his mouth. 

He must recognize it as a question rather than an exclamation, because he answers me, "Shhh," as he loosens my tie and slips it over my head. 

"What do you want?" I say, trying to get my bearings. And yet I know that whatever he requests, I will give it to him. 

"I want you," he says, and for him that is downright communicative. 

He pushes my coats off of my shoulders, running his hands over me through my thin shirt as he returns to kissing my mouth. It feels good. But it is not, I think, the same as what he feels when I run my hands over him. He moves into my touch, alive and responsive. I do not. My perception, though precise, is somewhat removed, somewhat detached. He is not touching me; he is touching my vessel. (And yes, I do still think of it as my vessel even though Jimmy is long gone, because it is not quite my body in the same way that Dean's body is his own). 

But it doesn't matter if I cannot feel what he feels. It is enough to know that each touch of his hands is an expression of his desire to be close to me. He wants to fold his body into mine. I want to fold my grace into the blinding light that is his soul. Close enough.

He has unbuttoned my shirt, and as he pulls it off of my arms he drops his head down to kiss the newly exposed flesh. He bites the muscle between my shoulder and neck before licking his way across my collarbone. I watch him. 

And as I watch, confusion suddenly intrudes on my contentment. 

The halo of light around Dean is dimming. The brightness that has set him apart in my sight from the very beginning has somehow diminished in the few short minutes since last I closed my eyes. There is no possible explanation for this. None. 

Except…

I am so startled that I say, too loudly, "Stop!"

Dean jerks away from me as if he has been stung. "I'm sorry!" he gasps. It nearly breaks my heart. He doesn't even know what he's apologizing for. "What's the matter?" 

"Your soul," I say, studying his body. His soul is still in there, burning beautifully, but it doesn't fill the room as it once did. I feel half-blind and lonely without its light. "It is… fading."

"What?" says Dean, pawing at his solar plexus where he imagines his soul to be, "What's wrong with it?" 

But I am sure now of what is happening. Dean's soul shines as brightly as ever. It is my ability to see it that is fading. 

"Nothing," I assure him, "Your soul is fine." I take a deep breath, and it is only then that I realize that I am terrified.

"But I believe I am beginning to fall from grace."


	2. A Dark Night

Like an idiot, like a coward, I flee. I leave Dean's bed, the hotel room, and even the state. In an instant and a flap of invisible wings, I am in a small town a thousand miles away. 

What am I doing here? 

But even though I know I am being foolish, I can't bring myself to go back to Dean. I was prepared to give myself to him, silent and passionate, with no promises given or received. But now this complication stares me in the face. Through his touch, and through my desire for it, I have lost a not-insignificant portion of my grace. Somehow, instinctively, I know that I will fall if I make love to him. That is not something that can be easily overlooked. 

Here, walking down an unfamiliar street in an unknown town, I can pretend that it didn't happen. Except, of course, for the fact that a large piece of my grace is still missing. 

It is dark here, and tall apartment buildings loom on either side of the street. Only every fifth streetlight or so is working, and half of those flicker pathetically. The strongest sources of light are from the occasional store front facing onto the street, their interior lights and neon signs illuminating the sidewalks. 

I'm not sure how long I've wandered before I am stopped by a concerned-looking young couple. She is wearing mittens and a scarf. He is wearing a thick, hooded coat. He says, "Are you okay, pal?"

I am far from okay, but I can hardly tell him why. "I'm fine," I say. 

"Aren't you cold?" she asks, glancing down at my midsection. I follow her gaze and am somewhat surprised to find that I am naked from the waist up. That is oddly unsettling. I had intended to restore my clothing when I teleported away from the room, but apparently I left most of it behind. It could be a sign of my diminished powers, or it could just be that I was distracted and in a hurry. Anyway, to answer her question, I am not cold at all, so clearly my powers are at least somewhat intact and keeping me warm. 

"My mistake," I mumble as I reach back into the hotel room all those miles away and retrieve my clothes. They appear on my vessel, and the startled couple quickly moves away. 

I let them go, looking down to check my appearance. My tie is missing and my shirt is unbuttoned. I button it as I walk. It's more difficult than I had expected. The buttons barely fit through the holes, and my fingers are not accustomed to the deft action needed to push them through. I remember watching Dean do up his shirts, not even looking at what he is doing, making it seem so effortless. But then, he has been human all his life. I'm new at it. 

_Don't think like that_ , I remind myself, _I am not human yet._

But I will be. One way or another, I will fall. In the months since I rebelled against Heaven, my grace has been diminishing steadily. One by one, my powers are becoming lost to me. Soon I won't be able to heal, or teleport, or even withstand the cold. Wouldn't it be better to trade what remains of my grace for one perfect night with Dean instead of watching it fade away slowly, uselessly? 

I keep walking. 

I walk until the light of a diner catches my eye. Through the window, I can see a room full of empty tables. Some are clean, menus standing at the ready. Others have yet to be cleared of their assorted dirty plates and cups. Only one is occupied – by a young woman who is poring over a thick textbook while sipping an enormous cup of coffee. A middle-aged woman in a colorful apron stands behind the counter at the very front. She is flipping through a magazine and chewing on her fingernail. Just to her right is a display case full of baked goods. 

The woman in the apron looks up and smiles at me as I walk in. "What'll it be?" she asks, "Late dinner? Or just something to drink?" 

I stare at the display case. I can smell the contents of every tin and plate within. As always, I can smell sugar, butter, flour, berries, apples, corn syrup, lard, lemon juice, baking powder, tapioca, salt, and dozens of other things. But for the first time, there is something more under the compartmentalized odor of each ingredient. Something in that case smells like sweetness, like comfort, like home. 

For the first time, instead of simply sensing its components, I am smelling pie. And I suddenly understand why Dean likes it so much.

"I would like that pie," I say, pointing. 

The woman pulls it out of the case for me. "Good choice," she says, "Blackberry is my favorite. You ever had it?"

I've never had any kind of pie. "No," I say.

"Well, then you're in for a treat," she says, "That'll be fifteen bucks." 

I stare at her. She stares back. 

"Uh, fifteen dollars?" she tries. 

"It's for my friend," I say, unsure of how to proceed. 

"Okay," she says, wincing a little in her confusion. 

"He likes pie." It's all I can think of to say. 

We stand there in awkward silence for several more seconds. Slowly, the woman's eyes scan my vessel. I glance down. I have missed one of the button holes on my shirt, making it bunch up in the middle and sit crooked on one side. The woman's expression takes on a note of sympathy. 

"Listen," she says, leaning forward conspiratorially, "We're gonna close in half an hour, and they're gonna make us throw out all these pies anyway. So if you promise not to tell anyone, you can have this one for free. How's that?" 

She holds out the pie in its flimsy metal tin. I take it reverently. "I promise not to tell anyone," I vow. 

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head at me the way Dean sometimes does when I have done something unintentionally funny. "I hope your friend likes it," she says. 

Outside and around the corner, out of sight of the women in the diner, I teleport myself and my clothes and the pie back to the hotel room. 

Dean is flat on his back on the bed. His legs dangle over the edge and his hands are on his face, his fingers digging into his closed eyes. 

"Dean?" I say, making him jerk upright with a gasp and a curse. 

"Jesus, Cas!" he says. Then, once he's caught his breath, he adds so quietly that he almost sounds vulnerable, "I didn't think you were coming back."

"I just needed time to think," I say, stepping toward the bed. 

Dean nods gratefully. Then his eyes flick down to what I hold in my hands. "Did you…" he says, "Did you seriously just bring me pie?"

I set the pie tin down on the bed between us as I sit across from him. 

Then I say, fully aware of how unwelcome the words must sound to him, "Dean, we need to talk."


	3. Talk to Me

"Why is this happening?" says Dean around a mouthful of blackberry pie. He has managed to find two forks in his luggage, and he now lies on his side on the bed, propped up by one elbow, his body curved slightly around the pie tin. I sit cross-legged just across from him. The fork that he offered me sits untouched on the bedspread. 

"I began to fall the moment I helped you in the green room," I say, "But it appears that any sexual activity with you will accelerate the process. Apparently the loss of my physical purity is affecting my grace." I pick up the fork and turn it over and over in my hands.

"So it's because you're a virgin?" says Dean. His face scrunches as he tries to work out the mystery. "Are angels not supposed to have sex?"

"That can't be it," I say, "It is frowned upon for angels to fornicate with humans, but there is no penalty for it. Besides, it wouldn't make any sense. I'm hardly the first to do something like this."

Dean tips his head and raises his eyebrows as he comes to the same conclusion I had. "Oh yeah," he says, "Gabriel went native a long time ago, and he still has all his powers."

"And I have other siblings who have not been exactly discreet in their dealings with humanity," I say, thinking of Balthazar in particular. 

Dean gives up trying to cut slices of pie with his fork, and instead pokes a hole in the top of the pie and starts scooping out filling. Just before shoveling a mound of blackberries into his mouth, he says, "Then what the hell? Why just you?"

I take a deep breath before voicing my theory. "I believe that it is because of the fact that my physical intimacy with you represents the culmination of my blasphemous feelings, and symbolizes my final renouncement of my Father's affection in favor of yours." The tines of the fork dig into my palm as I wait for his answer.

Dean laughs nervously. "Uh," he says, "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means it's not just the sex," I translate, "I'm falling because I am in love with you."

And there they are. The words that I have never dared to speak. I always suspected that if I were to voice my feelings aloud, Dean would bolt. He is not exactly at peace with his own sexuality, and I am reasonably certain that his feelings for me, whatever they may be, are not quite as intensely all-consuming as mine are for him. So I have stayed quiet. I have let him look at me, and touch me, and kiss me, and I have held my tongue. 

But now?

After all that I have given him, and after all that I am about to give him, the least that he owes me is to hear from my own mouth that I love him. Besides, on some level he must already know. What reason could I have had to do all the things that I have done for him, if not for love?

Dean freezes, his fork halfway through scooping up another bite. His mouth falls slowly open as he stares at me like a startled prey animal. I almost expect the pie in his mouth to drop out. "Cas…" he chokes out, looking more cornered than he would if I were holding a gun on him. 

"You don't need to say anything," I say, putting him out of his misery, "I just thought you should know."

Dean finally swallows his pie, quickly replacing it with another bite so he doesn't have to speak. I'm not sure what I expected from him, but I suppose I should be happy that he's not running screaming from the room. When he finally speaks again, he says, "So I guess the question is: do you still want to do it?"

"Yes," I say, surprised by how easily the word comes out. I suppose I had already made the decision in my mind, but it's strange to hear myself say it aloud. 

"Really?" says Dean, "You're not just saying that because you know I want to?"

I shake my head. "No, I want this too. Really."

He still doesn't look convinced. "Then say it," he says, "Let me hear you say the words."

"I want to keep going," I say, and then, when I can see from his expression that that isn't specific enough, "I want to have sex with you. And if I must fall, I want it to be here and now, with you, on my own terms. By my own choice."

Dean nods slowly, chewing a bite of pie. "Okay," he says. Then he catches me by surprise by asking, "Are you scared?"

"Not of you," I assure him, "But of being human… a little. I don't think I'll be very good at it. And I don't like the uncertainty of it."

"What aren't you certain about?" 

I shrug, a habit I am picking up from Dean. "What will I do once I'm human?" I wonder aloud, "Where will I go?"

Dean squints at me for a moment, confused. Then his eyes grow wide and he suddenly looks so angry that I fumble and drop the fork back onto the bed. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he says, "Where will you go? You'll stay with us, of course."

"My powers will be gone," I remind him, "I won't be able to heal you or transport you. I won't be able to smite demons or defend myself. I will be useless. A burden."

Dean stares at me silently, the anger on his face mixing with hurt and disbelief. "Cas," he finally says, "Do you really think your powers are the only reason I keep you around? I know I can act like an asshole sometimes, but give me some fucking credit."

He jams another bite of pie into his mouth. His eyes shift back and forth as he chews and thinks. I wait quietly, disarmed by the way he seems almost offended that I could ever think of leaving. When he speaks again, he points his fork at me for emphasis. "You'll still be able to throw a punch, right? Pull a trigger? Pour a line of salt? Me and Sam, we'll teach you everything you need to know. Besides, you'll still have like a bajillion years worth of angel knowledge, and that's gotta be worth something. You'll never be a burden on anybody, is what I'm saying, so don't you ever talk about leaving again."

Even though he still sounds angry, I find that I like it. He's angry because he is afraid. He's afraid to lose me. I have never thought such a thing possible. It's strangely comforting to me. 

His scowl is fading when he snatches up the fork from where I dropped it and shoves it back in my direction. "Now eat some goddamn pie," he orders. 

"I don't require sustenance," I say, but I take the fork anyway. 

"You will soon," Dean points out, "Just try it."

I poke at the hole Dean has made in the top of the pie, breaking off pieces of crust and mixing them into the berry filling below. I balance a piece of crust and some filling on my fork and raise it to my mouth. Instantly, my eyes flutter closed as the flaky crust breaks over my tongue and the sweet tartness of blackberries floods my mouth. 

"Good, huh?" says Dean. I open my eyes to see that he is watching my expression with amusement. 

To answer him, I take another bite of pie. I'm sure that I wouldn't be enjoying this nearly as much if I were not considerably more human than I was an hour ago, but I can't bring myself to care. "I am beginning to understand your fascination," I tell him, which makes him smile. 

"It reminds me of when I was a kid," he says. As he joins me in eating, our forks click together over the pie. "Reminds me of my mom. You know, eating certain foods always reminds you of the first time you tried them. Pie just makes me feel like my mom's right in the next room, like my dad's gonna be home from work any minute. Even if it's just for a second, it's nice."

I have no such memories to draw on. I suppose I will have to start accumulating them now. "So in the future," I say, "When I eat pie, will I be reminded of you?" 

Dean chuckles as he glances up at me. "Maybe," he says. 

We eat in silence for a while before Dean speaks up again. For a moment he looks like he might think better of it, but eventually he gets out, "So, how the hell did you make it through the however-many centuries that you've been alive without ever losing your V-card?"

I can't help but smile at the question. My celibacy must be inconceivable to Dean, who can barely make it through a week without some sort of sexual outlet or another. "Sex is not as common among angels as it is among humans," I explain, "We do not have your same drives, so it is not considered strange for an angel to choose never to be physically intimate with anyone. Besides, there are restrictions. We are not allowed to carry on relationships within our own garrisons, to prevent favoritism, and since I rarely made the effort to socialize outside my garrison I suppose the opportunity never presented itself."

"So you're a shut-in who never got himself a date?" says Dean. He quirks a smile to show that he is only teasing. 

"In a manner of speaking," I admit. 

"And what made you change your mind?" he presses, "If you never wanted to do it before, why now? Why me?" And then, seemingly embarrassed by his own earnestness, he adds, "Is it because I'm so pretty?"

"Yes," I say, and I am pleased to see that I have made Dean blush a little. Then I clarify, "Angels do not love superficially. Even sex, for us, is a communion of our grace moreso than it is a physical act. So even though your body is very aesthetically pleasing, it is your soul that matters. And your soul is more beautiful than any I have ever seen."

Dean's brow wrinkles. "But you said you couldn't see my soul so well anymore," he says, "When you're human, you won't be able to see it at all." He leaves the rest unspoken, but the words hang there in the air between us. _Will you still love me after you've fallen?_

I smile as convincingly as I can and say, "I'll still know that it's there." 

But will I? I allow my eyes to sweep over Dean's body. I take in his face with its gorgeous features and its dusting of freckles. I admire his strong arms and chest, his scarred hands, his bowed legs. Then I look into his eyes, the green of his irises made radiant by the soul still burning within. All of these things are beautiful to me. But will they be enough for me when that light is gone? 

I quickly change the subject. "What about you?" I ask, "Have you ever done this before?"

Dean gestures vaguely at our surroundings, confused. "Have I ever eaten pie in bed?" he says, "Uh, yeah, probably at some point."

I shake my head. "I was referring to what we are about to do."

"Cas, you know I'm no virgin," Dean laughs as he chomps down on another bite of pie.

His reluctance to catch my meaning belies his discomfort. It is almost enough to make me reconsider asking the question in the first place, but not quite. I need to know. "No," I say with a sigh, "I mean with a man."

Dean freezes mid-swallow, not even breathing. Finally his Adam's apple bobs once and he coughs. He coughs again, his shoulders tensing up as he appears to be contemplating the relative merits of faking a stroke in order to distract me from what I have just asked. Finally, when it becomes clear that I am not about to give him permission to ignore the question, he says quietly, "A couple of times." 

I nod, silently urging him to go on. 

"There was this guy at one of the high schools I went to when I was a kid," he sighs, giving in, "We were only there for three weeks or so. I was dating his sister. But I spent a lot of time at their house, and when she wasn't around… it was easy, you know?" He swipes a hand across his mouth as he stares at the wall. "I was such an asshole to her. But me and him… I think we kind of needed each other. I'd never met anyone who was okay with that part of me before, and I don't think he had either. It was good."

His eyes snap back to me as if he is almost surprised to find me still watching and listening. "I'm not gay," he declares, the panic in his voice evident. 

"I know you're not," I say, "But if you were, it wouldn't make any difference to me."

That seems to calm him down somewhat. "So, uh," he stammers, "There were a few more after that. Nothing long-term. Nothing I couldn't hide from my dad and Sam. Then when Sam went off to Stanford, I just stopped. My dad and I were together all the time, and I couldn't get away as easily without Sam to distract him. Even later, when I started going on hunts of my own, I didn't dare. It was in me by then, that feeling that he'd find out no matter what I did to hide it. And I couldn't… I couldn't let that happen. Sam was gone. Dad was all I had left. I couldn't let him look at me that way."

He looks exhausted, as if the mere effort of telling me these things is almost more than he can bear. It pains me to know that no matter what I say, my words will mean nothing next to all his years of fear and denial. All I can do is be here for him. 

I pick up the pie tin with what remains of the pie and set it on the nightstand behind me. Slowly, I take the fork from Dean's hand and place to together with my own fork in the tin. Then I crawl across the bed and curl up against him, pulling his arm over me. His hand immediately latches onto my coat, holding me in place. 

"I've never told all that to anyone before," he says. 

I want to leave it be, but my curiosity gets the better of me. "Were you in love with any of them?" I ask. 

He laughs helplessly as he says, "Cas, I'm not sure I've ever really been in love with anyone." He must feel the way I flinch at his words, because the next thing he says is, "Shit. That came out wrong." 

I suddenly find his embrace confining. I try to squirm away from him, but he holds me tighter as he quickly says, "Wait, Cas, wait. Listen… ah, fuck it. What you said before, about… uh… I mean… you know I feel the same way about you, right?"

It is such a clumsy admission that I have no choice but to find it endearing. But that doesn't mean that I won't demand more of him. "Say it," I order. 

"What?" says Dean nervously. 

"Say it," I tell him, echoing what he said to me earlier, "Let me hear you say the words."

He smiles as he realizes that I am turning the tables on him. "You son of a bitch," he says, his head bowing down to bump his forehead against mine playfully, "I love you, okay?" Then he closes his eyes, his face relaxing as he says once more without a hint of a joke or tease, "I love you, Cas."

We are so close that I barely have to move at all before I am kissing him. This time there is no hesitation on my part. I do as he has taught me, holding him to me with a hand on the back of his head and biting gently at his lower lip. I pull him toward me. And it is then that I first feel the stirrings of something new within me. I have wanted for so long to become one with Dean, but I have wanted it in a pure, cerebral way. Innocently, naively. But now my vessel burns for him. I want him deeply, desperately, carnally, and that is how I kiss him. It is no longer a reasoned desire that I feel, but a primitive hunger. 

He responds by rolling over on top of me, kissing me hard enough to bury my head in pillows and sheets. He shifts so that our bodies match up from knees to chests, pressed together in a searing seam. His hand runs down my arm. His fingers weave onto mine. 

"Now," he says, his voice breathy and low, "Where were we?"


	4. The Climb

I can see now, as I gasp against Dean's mouth and arch my body into his, why most humans feel such a need for this kind of contact. I warm to Dean's touch as his hands run from my shoulders to my hips and back, making wrinkles in my shirt and then smoothing them out again. My own hands can do little else but grip Dean's coat, holding fast to him like a life raft as I start to sink into the surprisingly deep waters of my lust.

Dean kisses his way across my cheek to my ear. A soft breath and a gentle bite there make my whole body shiver, and I feel my pants begin to tighten around my crotch. This is not the first time I have experienced an erection, but it is the first time I have felt like doing something with it. 

I lift my hips, trying to rub myself up against Dean where he lies on top of me. "Like this," he whispers into my ear as he knocks his right knee against the inside of my left, nudging it outwards. "Open your legs."

I do as I'm told. Dean's lower body falls down between my legs, and this time when Dean rolls his hips into me the pressure makes me see stars. I swallow, hard, and the blasphemies that want to come spilling out of my mouth are reduced to a muffled groan. 

"Good?" says Dean, and somehow his voice is both smugly satisfied and weak with arousal. 

"Yes, good," I gasp. I can't seem to control my breathing, which is making it difficult to speak. "But…" I say uncertainly, "Shouldn't we take our clothes off?"

Dean laughs as he thrusts against me again, effectively silencing me. "Plenty of time for that," he says into my ear, "Let's take it slow."

I think of the urgency with which Dean does everything in his life, and I realize that he is doing this for me. I expected him to take me whichever way he wanted me. The effort it takes him to deliberately slow himself to my pace is a gift that I do not overlook. 

But still, the warmth of his body is hidden under his shirt, and the sweep of his hands over my chest is muffled by my coat. I want more. As he continues to rut against me, my hands find their way under his shirt and my fingertips dig into the skin of his back. "Dean," I sigh, my face pressed to his, "Dean…"

When my voice tightens, and I begin to feel something growing within me – some new awesome and overwhelming sensation – Dean suddenly stops. The sensation fades as Dean smiles coyly and rolls off the bed, leaving me hot and panting on my back. 

"Okay," he says, " _Now_ we take our clothes off."

I want to punch him for the self-satisfied smirk he is giving me, but instead I stand and shrug my coat off. Dean's coat hits the floor too. He has yanked his t-shirt over his head and kicked his pants off before I even manage to undo my first three buttons, and I fumble with the third button again and again, distracted by the naked flesh and erect penis standing less than a foot away and waiting for me. 

"Let me do it," says Dean, swatting my hands away and pulling my shirt open in seconds, "Or we'll be here all night." My belt makes a snapping sound as he pulls it free. He backs me against the wall, cold plaster on my shoulder blades, as he drops to his knees to undo my pants. 

I am achingly hard and desperate to be free of my clothes, but Dean pauses just before exposing me. He looks up from where he kneels in front of me, face level with the fly of my pants. "Is this okay?" he asks. 

"Oh," I reply, flustered, "Are you going to suck my penis? Then yes, I would like that."

But instead of the response I was hoping for, Dean pulls a horrified expression. He leans to one side and smacks his forehead against the wall with a hollow _thunk_. "Cas, no" he groans, "You can't say 'penis' when we're having sex."

"Why not?"

"Because it's one of the least-sexy words in the English language," he says, "It's only a penis when you're talking to a doctor. In bed, it's a cock. Or a dick."

"I understand," I say, "Please suck my cock."

Dean's eyes widen. "Shit," he says, "That was actually pretty hot." And then he finally pulls my pants off. 

When he presses a kiss to the base of my cock, his hand running lightly up the shaft, my knees very nearly buckle. I curl over, putting my hands on his shoulders to steady myself, as he slides his lips over me. Then, his eyes flashing upwards to meet mine, he snakes his tongue out to trace the groove around the head of my cock. 

"Dean, please!" My voice sounds like his now – not closed-off or inhibited anymore, but rich with need. 

He answers by taking me into his mouth, drawing sounds out of me that I didn't know I could make. My hands rise to grip his hair. I want to pull him deeper onto me, but somehow I resist and satisfy myself by tugging lightly at the short strands. He swallows me down even without any insistence from me, slowly, deliberately. After less than a minute of him bobbing his head between my legs, I feel that sensation come over me again – of something within me about to burst, of standing on a high ledge and getting ready to fall. 

"I'm going to…" I start to whisper, and he stops in an instant, standing to stroke my face and kiss over my eyes. 

"Not yet," he says, "Not yet." 

I pull at his hair and groan out my frustration. He holds me steady against the wall, leading me back away from that ledge, waiting for my breathing to even out before he kisses me again. 

"Cas," he says, suddenly sounding as shy as a schoolboy, "Would you do something for me?"

I don't even hesitate before replying, "Anything."

"Let me see your wings."

It's certainly not what I was expecting. It takes me a moment to ask, "Why?"

Dean shrugs, trying not to look shy, but I can tell that this is actually important to him. "It's my last chance, right?" he says, "Can I? Or will they burn my eyes out or something?"

"No," I say slowly, thinking it over, "I believe I can manifest them in a way that would be safe for you. It's just…"

He looks into my eyes, earnest, waiting. 

"This body is a vessel," I say, "But my wings are different. They are tied directly to my grace. You could say that they are as close to my true body as you can perceive. To expose them here on Earth will make me very vulnerable, so… please be gentle."

He nods. "I promise," he says. 

I trust him. If I did not trust him, I would not dare to do what I now do: summon up what remains of my grace and let it pour out of my shoulders, stiff feathers flicking against my skin as they are freed one by one from nonexistence. They spread out and out, painting themselves against the wall like shadows, stretching from one corner to the other and beyond. I sigh softly as I accustom myself to their weight and their strange sensitivity. On the skin of my vessel, I can ignore the slight chill in the room, the draft from the window, the vibration of the air. But my wings feel everything. They glow with sensation, stretching and shivering. 

Dean's hand hovers just over the longest bone of my right wing, waiting for my nod of permission before he touches it. True to his word, he is gentle, but my breath still catches in my throat as he strokes me from shoulder to alula. 

"Okay?" he murmurs. 

I breathe out a, "Yes," as I lean heavily against the wall, letting it take the weight off of my trembling legs. 

This is not as sexual as the fellatio was. I will not reach orgasm just from this. But it is pure and overwhelming; it is being thrown into fire and feeling everything but the heat; it is opening my chest and letting a hand close around my heart. As Dean carefully works each joint, feeling the curve of every muscle and bone, I am starkly aware that this is as close as he will ever come to touching my grace. 

Dean runs his fingers up through the feathers, lifting them to touch the skin underneath. "It's hot," he says, "Is that because of your grace, or do the feathers just keep you really warm?" But I am too far gone to answer. "Cas," Dean chuckles, stroking me more lightly as he allows me to recover, "Come back to me."

"I'm right here," I say after a moment. I close my eyes and drop my head back against the wall just as Dean tweaks my longest flight feather. My toes curl into the carpet as I feel the vibration deep in the socket where quill meets skin. He does the same to the next long feather, and the next. I cannot shake the feeling that he is drawing the grace out of each feather, soaking it up with his fingers, removing the divinity that my Father imbued me with and replacing it with human sins and failings and love. He is remaking me in his own image. And I am letting him. 

I want it. 

With that thought, something tears loose within me. 

A scream sticks in my throat. I curl around myself, barely staying upright as my body is wracked with the unmistakable feeling of something vital being shredded. Through my closed eyes I can see a bright blue-white to either side of me where I know my wings are dripping light. It is falling off the ends of my feathers, never to be recovered. My blasphemy has opened a hole in me. Now my grace hemorrhages out through the wound, leaving an aching cold where its fire used to burn.

Dean's voice rings in my ears, though I can't make out any words. I open my eyes to stare at him dizzily. The light from my wings is fading, the bleeding is slowing, and I am regaining control of my faculties. 

Was that it?

Have I fallen?

I search Dean's face for his soul. It is still there, a faint glow behind the green of his eyes and a sort of luminousness to his skin. I am still an angel.

But only barely.


	5. The Fall

I don't realize that my ears are roaring until they stop, and I can finally hear Dean's voice shouting, "Are you okay? What's wrong? What the fuck did I do?" As I re-plant my feet beneath me, I notice that the only reason I didn't fall to the floor is because Dean is holding me up under my arms. 

"Don't worry," I say, though my voice is shaky now, "It wasn't anything you did."

His mouth tightens as he puts it together. "It's happening, isn't it?" 

"Yes."

"That seemed pretty intense," he says, "Is it supposed to happen like that?" I am steady on my feet now, but he doesn't let go of me. 

"I don't know," I admit. 

"Does it hurt?"

I hesitate for only a second before deciding that it's not lying to deny it, since it doesn't hurt anymore. "No. It's just strange."

Dean doesn't look convinced. "We should stop," he says ruefully.

"No!" I immediately protest, "Please. I want to keep going." I step forward deeper into his embrace, and I almost trip on one of my wings. I hadn't expected them to still be there. 

"If you're sure…" says Dean as his arms tighten around me. Suddenly, with the rush of my sudden slide down the slope to humanity fading, I become aware of something strange about those arms. They are a little too tight, or maybe too rough, or too hot. His fingers stroke at the line between skin and feathers at the base of my wing, and I figure out what is bothering me. 

I reach behind my back to grab Dean's wrists. Though he looks at me strangely, I move one of his hands to rest on my wing and the other against my chest. The difference is astounding. While I can feel the hand on my wing, the sensation is strangely distant. It feels like my vessel used to feel back when I was fully an angel. But the hand on my chest scorches with heatless fire. My skin is alert to every stimulus. Fascinated, I remove Dean's right hand from my wing and place it on my chest beside his left. I grip his wrists again to guide his hands over my body, wrapping them around my neck and pushing them into my hair. It feels so good that it makes me lightheaded, and I boggle to think that this must be what humans experience all the time. 

"I can feel you," I moan, pulling one of his hands around to suck on his finger. I marvel that my tongue is even more sensitive than the rest of me. 

"What, you couldn't before?" says Dean, smiling bemusedly at my bliss, "Could have fooled me."

I reply, "Not like this. Touch me. Touch me everywhere."

But Dean seems intent on teasing me. Instead of giving me what I ask for, he drops his hands and backs away from me to lower himself back onto the bed. "No," he says, "My turn. You touch me."

He doesn't need to ask me twice. I push him flat and straddle him, my wings flashing out to either side of me as I balance myself over him. They cast feather-shaped shadows over his face. He slowly turns his head to right to left, taking me in from wingtip to wingtip. "Fucking beautiful," he murmurs. 

I lower myself onto him to kiss his mouth, and then his jaw line, and then down his neck, trying to mimic the way he has kissed me in the past. He rumbles appreciatively deep in his throat, urging me forward. 

But now my brain has turned itself back on. It makes me stumble. I wonder if I am doing it right, if I am touching him too roughly or too softly, if I am kissing the same place for too long, if I am going too fast, if I am boring him, if I…

He catches my chin in his hand and lifts my face up. "I swear I can hear you over-thinking this, and I'm not even psychic," he says. My face prickles with heat, and I realize that I am blushing. He presses his knuckles to my cheek to cool the burn. "Don't get embarrassed," he says, "This is supposed to be fun. You can do whatever you want with me."

That is a different way of thinking about it. I try to keep it in mind as I move back down to lick Dean's nipple, which makes him arch against me. Instead of paralyzing myself by worrying about what he might think of me, I let myself enjoy his body. I trace out the planes and slopes of him with my hands and mouth, breathing in the dark whiskey and gun oil and old leather scent of him. My hand slides under his back and pulls him into me as I suck and lick and nip my way down his body. 

His fingernails rake my arms and shoulders and every part of me that he can still reach. "That's it," he moans, "That's good."

I've slid down between his legs now. I walk my fingers over the arch of his hipbones and ask, "Is this okay?" When he lifts his head to look at me, confused, I make my intention clear by blowing a soft breath onto his cock. 

"Jesus!" he groans, tossing his head back, "Who taught you to be such a fucking tease?"

"Yes, who would do such a thing?" I reply. I'll let him try to figure out whether I'm being sarcastic or not. 

I enjoy the sound of Dean's breathing quickening as I kiss my way up the inside of his thigh and onto the soft skin of his cock. I lap at the slick of pre-cum that is smeared over the head of it, and though I had planned to tease Dean as much as he did me, I find my lips sliding down over him farther and farther, my tongue relishing the sensation. He tenses up once with a gentle, "Watch the teeth, Cas," but then I cover my teeth with my lips and he lies back with a happy sigh. 

I like sucking Dean's cock. I like exploring the ridges and grooves of it with my sensitive tongue, and running my lips up and down the smooth shaft. I like the sounds that Dean is making and the way his hands are gripping the sheets beside him. I swallow him farther and farther down, ordering my vessel's throat to open. 

It doesn't obey. 

My chest seizes, my stomach turns, and my throat spasms around Dean's cock. I spit him out, coughing and dry wretching. My eyes are watering. I order them to stop, but they don't obey either.

Dean sits up to hold my shoulders while I catch my breath. "Take it easy," he says, sounding more than a little disappointed at the interruption, "Don't make yourself sick."

"Make myself sick?" I rasp, alarmed. 

"Yeah," he says, "Dude, it's just your gag reflex. You've gotta be more careful."

"I don't have a gag reflex," I protest indignantly, "I'm an angel."

Dean is kind enough not to state the obvious. _Not anymore._

I look down at my hands. So this is what it means to have a body instead of a vessel. It means I lose control over countless things I have taken for granted. I knew I would lose my powers, but I was not prepared for the fact that my body will apparently begin to do certain things whether I want it to or not. It is unsettling. Clearly there are ways of suppressing certain reflexes and ignoring certain stimuli – there must be, or no one would function. But I have not learned these tricks. I feel everything; I react to everything. For all intents and purposes, I am a child born into an adult body. A veritable baby in a trench coat. 

Dean must recognize the panic on my face, because he pulls me into an embrace and kisses me roughly. One good thing I can say about becoming human is that a really good kiss is apparently able to wipe my mind nearly clean. By the time Dean pulls away from me with a smack of his lips, my panic has subsided to a more manageable level. 

"Thank you," I say. 

Dean smiles at me as if he is not quite sure what to do with me. "No problem," he says, "You good?"

"I'll be fine," I sigh, "I'm sorry about all this. There are many things about falling and fornication that I did not anticipate."

Dean's mouth twitches in a way that I have learned means he is trying to hold in a laugh. "I don't know anything about falling," he says, "But this is pretty much par for the course when it comes to having sex for the first time."

It's amazing what Dean is able to take in stride. "I feel I am asking too much of you," I confess, "This must be very strange for you."

This time Dean cannot hold in his laugher. It sputters out of him as he leans his head on my shoulder, his whole body vibrating with it. "Cas, you have wings," he chuckles, "A minute ago you were doubled over because you're in the process of turning from a wavelength of celestial intent into a regular dude. And now everything has ground to a halt because you just figured out that you're capable of choking on a cock. So, yes. This is strange. Strange is an understatement. This is the strangest sex I have ever had, and I have had some strange fucking sex." 

I feel myself beginning to blush again, but Dean catches my face in his hand before I can look away. "But you know what?" he says, lifting his head to look me in the eyes, "I would not miss this for anything."

Sometimes Dean reminds me of why I love him. 

We fall back into the sheets still locked in an embrace, writhing together and kissing each other silly. When my wings become cramped from being pinned under me, I roll on top of Dean and let them drape out behind me. They feel awkward now, almost vestigial. I had thought that I would miss them, but now I almost can't wait for them to be gone. 

Dean's cock brushes against my leg, still sticky with my drying saliva. I don't know if it's the loss of my grace and the emptiness where it used to be, but suddenly I feel a driving need to be filled. I want him inside me. Pulling my mouth off of his, I sit up, my knees on either side of his pelvis, my hand reaching back to angle his cock toward me.

Dean grabs my hips and pulls me forward, away from his cock, with a, "Whoa! Whoa! What do you think you're doing?"

I have no answer. "I…" I stammer, "I wanted…"

"You can't sit on my dick just like that," he sighs, "You'll hurt yourself."

Now I am confused. "But in the videos I watched…" I try to explain, but then Dean is laughing again.

"Okay," he chuckles, reaching over the side of the bed for his duffel, "Rule number one of sex: 'I saw it in a porno' is _never_ an acceptable replacement for common sense." He opens the duffel, rummages around in the side pocket, and produces a green squeeze-bottle. "Rule number two of sex," he adds, holding up the bottle, "Lube."

If my past interactions with humans are any indication, I have a lot of work to do on my common sense. But I can remember the lube. "I understand," I tell him, but he just laughs again.

Then he glances at me curiously. "Do, uh, do we need a condom? Cause I have those too."

"Of course not. I'm an ange… Oh." I keep forgetting. I think about it for a moment, and then say, "I am at no risk. I would have been able to tell if you had any sort of infection."

"Yeah, but what if you get pregnant?" says Dean, the corners of his mouth twitching.

I reply, "That's impossible. I lack the necessary reproductive or…"

He interrupts me, "Cas, I'm just kidding." He flips me onto my back, my wings only giving him a little difficulty, and hooks my knees over his hips. "Tell me if I'm going too fast."

"I will," I promise, even as I think that I would sooner die than complain. My legs are spread wide, and his cock is so close. I am almost holding my breath in anticipation of him forcing his way inside me. 

Instead, he squirts a line of lube along the length of his first two fingers and slides them down between us, rubbing slow circles around my anus and making me slick. I almost beg him to hurry, but then a tremor shakes my body and I decide that this feels good enough that I will let him take his time. I shift my wings under me, trying to get comfortable, only for them to flail involuntarily at the sudden burst of pleasure that hits when Dean slides a finger inside me. 

"Ah! Ah!" I moan. When Dean glances up, worry on his face, I assure him, "Good. That feels good." 

But he still looks worried. "You know," he says, and I try to focus even though it is very difficult to hear anything he is saying while his finger is slowly sliding in and out of my ass, "We don't have to go all the way. Not tonight, not your first time. We can do other stuff."

Dean's finger curls upward, making my whole body seize with pleasure. This is a very unfair time to be having this conversation. "No, I want it," I beg, "I want it now." 

"It's just…" he says as he twists his finger, testing me all the way around my circumference, "You're really fucking tight. I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't!" I gasp, "Please!" 

He finally seems to realize that I am not quite in my right mind. He takes pity on me by removing his finger before saying, "It might be easier to do it the other way around. If you want to. I mean, I could…" The expression on his face sobers me up quickly. His jaw is set and his eyes are wide. He is not saying these things lightly. 

I lever myself up on my elbows. "Have you done that before?"

"No!" The slight nervous laugh behind the word and the vehemence with which he says it speaks volumes to me. Of course he has never done it. With his upbringing and his preconceived notions about what it means to be the passive partner during sex, the very thought must be terrifying to him. That he would even offer to do that for me is unspeakably generous. 

"Then I think it would be best if at least one of us knows what he's doing," I say. He doesn't even try to hide the relief on his face. 

"Okay," he says, and with a devious grin he replaces his one finger with two. The pleasure is the same, making me writhe and moan, but there is a new sensation with it now. A strain. I become aware that I have limits, though I do not yet know what they are. When he adds a third finger, I feel the first spark of pain. "Easy, easy," he murmurs into my ear as he pulls me through that moment of discomfort and back into ecstasy. 

I can’t tell how long I have been flying high, breathing out small noises into Dean's neck, when he slides his fingers out and whispers, "Ready?" I nod. He grabs the lube again, smearing it over his cock and stroking it back to full hardness. Then he takes me by the knees and presses them to my chest. I can feel him probing at my entrance, working me open against my body's attempt to close back up. "Don't fight me," he says. 

"I'm trying," I groan. He is inside me now, at least part-way. The pain is bright and sharp. The strain becomes a stretch that threatens to break me, and the grunt that I try to stifle somehow draws itself out into a low whine. 

Dean freezes. "Am I hurting you, Cas?" he pants breathlessly. 

The question is so sweet and so gentle and so tinged with guilt that I don't have the heart to tell him the truth. "No," I say quickly. I let my head flop to the side, burying my face in the sheets so Dean can't see how I wince. 

"Cas," says Dean once more, turning my face back to look me in the eye, "Am I hurting you?" His eyes beg me not to lie to him.

I force myself to smile. "I can bear it," I say, "Go slowly, please."

He nods, but he doesn't move. He just lets his hands wander over my shoulders and the tops of my wings as I accustom myself to his girth. I find that if I focus on breathing, I can relax my body muscle by muscle. The second I loosen around his cock, he presses forward by a fraction of an inch, stopping when I seize up and grit my teeth. He continues in this way, impaling me deeper and deeper. But he watches me so carefully, and he only moves when he knows that I can take it. All the time he whispers in my ear. "That's it. You're doin' good. Almost there now." Soft and low and soothing. 

When his entire length is inside me, his hips pressed flush to my rear, I can no longer speak. I can barely breathe. For a moment I wonder if I was wrong, if I am not ready for this, because all I can feel is that cutting pain of being stretched to my limit and all I can do grip Dean's arms and try to breathe. Each time I breathe in it is a gasp. Each time I breathe out it is a whimper. 

But then Dean is there to guide me. His hands caress the sides of my head, his thumbs sweeping gently over my face. My focus shifts. His touch leads me gently away from my pain and back toward rough fingers teasing my lips. He runs the pads of his thumbs over my eyelids, and when I open them again his eyes are looking into mine. 

"It's okay, babe, just wait it out," he murmurs in the same soothing voice, "I won't move until you tell me to."

Even now, even lying here torn between pain and euphoric fulfillment, I am struck by Dean's beauty. His face glistens with sweat – both his and mine. His tongue sweeps over his lips chapped from kissing. I can see his soul glowing like a dying ember in the depths of his wide-blown pupils, and I stare into it, cherishing my final glimpses of it. 

Dean's breathing is ragged with arousal, but his face is pained. It takes me a moment to realize that he is unconsciously mirroring the expression on my face, bearing witness to every wrinkle of my brow and every twitch of my mouth. I reach up to stroke his face, and as the lines smooth out on his skin so do they on mine. 

I tilt my chin up and open my mouth invitingly. "Kiss me," I request. 

He hitches one arm under me, between my wings, and does as I ask – deeply and slowly. He holds his lower body motionless, true to his promise, though he is trembling with the effort of it. His stuttering breath and whispered oaths inflame me. I find that his lips over mine and his tongue in my mouth are not enough. But even when I begin grinding up into him, he does not move. Soon I am sliding back and forth under him, slowly fucking myself on his cock while he hovers rigidly above me. 

"Cas…" he groans. 

I lock my ankles behind his back and pull him into me. The pain is not gone, but it now matters less to me than my need for release. "Fuck me," I growl. 

I expect him to use the permission to do as he wishes, but Dean starts slowly, matching the rhythm that I was using a moment ago. I cling to him as he rocks us together faster and faster, but still so gently, and now I can feel that I am so close to something monumental. My grace is dripping away now, seeping out at the edges, but it isn't painful like it was before. Instead of being torn away from me, it is ebbing gently. The last turns of the vortex as it disappears down the drain. My wings pulse dimly with each thrust, going out like guttering candles. 

I don't notice that Dean has grabbed the lube again until he is rubbing my cock down with a handful of it, making me jump at the cold even as I moan at the glorious, slippery feeling. He puts his arms around me, the remaining lube on his hands smearing across my back, and holds me close. Now whenever he moves, my cock rubs slickly between our bodies. 

The final dizzying drop is in sight, and this time I am approaching it so quickly that I know I will not be able to stop. 

"Dean!" I scream in a voice so wild that I do not recognize it.

"Let it happen," he whispers as he pulls me over the edge. 

Pleasure hits me with a jolt, suddenly so intense that it would be frightening if my mind could hold anything at all. My body arches and spasms against Dean's weight holding me down against the mattress. My fingers dig into his skin wherever I can reach it, leaving round pink marks framed by crescents of red from my nails. I can barely hear my own voice, and I am not sure whether I am shouting in English or Enochian or whether I am just screaming. My orgasm takes me, sweeping me up completely and irresistibly. 

And with it comes the fall. 

It happens suddenly, just as my senses begin to return to me. A shift in my surroundings. Everything that I can see, hear, or touch is somehow a fraction starker than before. A fraction harsher. Without my grace to shield me, I am at the mercy of the world, just as my wings were when I first brought them forth. As for my wings, the flesh and bone of them flickers out of existence, leaving my feathers to scatter themselves over the bed and drift to the floor. A keratin skeleton. A shadow. 

The rush subsides. The fall ends and we land together, not as a hunter and an angel, but as two men locked together in a tangle of arms and legs. 

"Did it happen?" Dean is asking me, "Are you human now?"

I have to try twice before my voice allows me to say, "I believe so."

"So you can't see my soul anymore?" 

I run a hand up his back, over his neck, and rest it on his cheek. I look into his eyes. Though the light behind them is invisible to me now, they are just as green and just as kind as they ever were. I can perceive his soul, not as the blinding light that it once was, but hidden in his languid smile. It is in his hands as they brush the hair out of my face. It is in every part of him, and in every action he takes. 

How could I have ever thought, even for a second, that falling would make a difference in my love for Dean? I may never be an angel again, but he will always be my Righteous Man. 

"No," I say, "But I see you."


End file.
